


I Want To Wake Up

by RoryEgg



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M, Major Character Injury, Major Original Character(s), Pregnancy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rebellion, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Torture, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-09-12 14:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16874970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoryEgg/pseuds/RoryEgg
Summary: Slow-Burn Dramione.Harry is dead and Hermione finds herself at the end of her rope when a prophecy predicts that she will bear the Dark Lord's heir. In the cold dungeons of Malfoy Manor, Hermione finds that she is not quite as alone as she thought, and that there are people willing to lay their lives on the line to protect her and her baby; a baby rumoured amongst the Rebellion to be the very downfall of the man who sought to create him. But those tasked with keeping a watchful eye over the boy as he grows up beside his father, without Hermione to guide him, wonder if they're raising an even worse wizard than his father or the saviour that will lead them out of darkness.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic uses time jumps a lot. I clarify in one part that it is "7 Years Ago," and I will continue to do that in the first time jump of every chapter (Let's hope lol).  
> The "Current" timeline will not stay current, and we will move on into the future as the fic progresses! As time often does! But who knows, bc moments fall around us like rain or snow or confetti. I thought time was like a line? Dominoes falling one into the other, but it's not. Shoutout 2 my Haunting at Hill House Homies. Sorry.  
> Also, (I'll say it again for those in the back), Slowburn Dramione for all those wondering holla (I like me some Tomione but this aint it!) Also, rated Explicit for later chapters. I'll give ya some warning if somethin starts to happen

“Let me hear you say it, darling, I need to hear you say it,” Narcissa said sternly to the boy. She regarded the young child in front of her cautiously - she always did. It didn’t matter how charming and clever he was, Narcissa worried about him.

Narrowing her eyes, the child gulped and nodded, opening his mouth to speak.

“Mummy was a whore,” he replied to the woman in a weak voice. “She deserved to die.”

Narcissa smiled thinly, relieved at last, and nodded to him. “Very good. Now run along, Antioch. You know your father doesn’t like you in this part of the house. It’s very dangerous for little boys.”

The boy scratched his head and spun on his heels, running from the Left Wing of the Malfoy family Manor. 

In truth, it was not so much that it was dangerous, though it most definitely was and that could not be contested. The majority of the Dark Lord’s time was spent in that wing, and his many dark objects made it a somber hall. But above all, it was the screaming. It was the voices. Malfoy Manor’s dungeons, though the war had been won nearly eight years before, was still full of those who fought beside Harry Potter. It was not uncommon to hear screams echo through the halls, though Narcissa’s wards kept them relegated to the Left Wing. 

Narcissa raised her eyes to the boy, watching him as he stood silently in the parlour just out of the Wing’s wards. With a cock of her eyebrow, the boy’s eyes widened and he sprinted for the stairs and raced up them until he was out of view. 

Looking down at herself, she straightened out her dress and put a hand to her chest as if to steady to her heart from beating out of her chest. ‘That boy will be the death of me’, she thought solemnly.

“Comstock,” she said loudly, calling the boy’s house elf. He arrived in a snap, popping down in front of her instantly. 

“Yes, mistress?” He asked in a hoarse voice.

“How many times do you have to be told to keep the child away from here? How do you keep losing track of him?”

The house elf bowed down in disgrace. “My apologies, mistress. He gave me many tasks to complete, I didn’t even know he had left the gardens.”

Narcissa rolled her eyes at the elf. “He’s a clever boy, Comstock. He’ll outsmart you at every turn unless you start following orders. He’s the Dark Lord’s son, after all. Manipulative and juvenile and becoming more aware every day.”

Comstock snorted. “It is times like this where I wonder if we made the right decision about him - about all of it.” Comstock sighed and and wiggled his fingers, summoning a silver platter holding a cup of tea for Narcissa exactly the way she liked it. 

“May I ask what he was doing, Mistress? Perhaps it will help me keep him from inciting trouble in the future.”

Narcissa took a deep breath and the lines of worry and doubt began to show on her face. She wasn’t young anymore, and it seemed the stress of the war couldn’t compare to the level of anxiety she felt these days. 

“He was looking for information about his mother; assumed there must be a painting or a photograph of her somewhere. Even just a name he could research.”

Comstock looked up at her sympathetically. “I assume you said nothing?”

Narcissa nearly laughed. “I used Bella’s line, made him repeat it to me so he understood. He was nearly in tears, Comstock, you should have seen him. You know, there are moments where I look at him and see his father. Then other times, like in the Dark Lord’s study, he looked at me with those dark eyes and I thought that he’d never looked more like his mother. It gave me a fright when I saw him there, it took me so off guard, and the way he spoke…” She shuddered and cupped the warm tea with both hands. “Sometimes it feels as if he’s old enough-.”

“You must be careful, Mistress,” Comstock said quietly. “No matter how much he looks like Miss Granger, he’s been raised without her his whole life. We cannot trust him so long as he is loyal to the Dark Lord. Merlin knows we may never be able to.”

Narcissa wiped a tear from her eye before it got the chance to make itself known to the Manor. “Go fetch him and clean him up for supper. The Dark Lord will be returning soon.”

Comstock nodded and turned, already walking down the hall towards the staircase.

“And Comstock?” Narcissa called, getting his attention. “Never say that name in this house again.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

7 Years Earlier

 

“WHAT?” Bellatrix screeched, pulling all the attention to herself and away from Voldemort, who grimaced.

“I said,” Voldemort restarted impatiently, “that I am to have an heir. I have been alerted by a team of medi witches that tend to our… downstairs visitors… that a certain mudblood is with child. My child. My heir.”

The table hummed with energy. Wizards and witches turned to exchange muted glances, muffled words, while Bellatrix looked on in disbelief.

“I don’t understand how this is possible, my Lord, we’ve-” Voldemort raised his hand and Bellatrix stopped speaking immediately. 

“She is to be moved from the dungeons to a more comfortable room at once. Lucius… As this is your family home, I ask that your wife attend to the Granger girl’s temporary … vacation… from her scheduled activities.”

Lucius clasped his hands and mumbled his gratitude, turning to Draco for affirmation of their appreciation over the new task. Beside him, Draco paled as he imagined the crude fate of his childhood classmate. He nearly had to close his eyes for a moment as a scream seared through the hall, bouncing off of walls that only seemed to carry the sound longer. Voldemort did that on purpose, he supposed. He revelled in them, but Draco had to stop himself from shivering as the not-so-infrequent thought of the stripped scream belonging to the girl he’d been taught to hate passed through him. 

What if if was her? He’d spent years accidentally learning the sound of her voice, the sound of her laughter and, in the past years, the sound of her agony. 

“You would let that whore be mother to your heir?” Bellatrix spit through her teeth, vicious and wild.

“Bella, I’m sure I do not need to remind you of your place.” Bellatrix’s lips puckered and she leaned back in her chair, fingers gripping tight to her chair to keep her from lashing out. 

“Besides, I would hope that all in attendance here understand the need for the mudblood. The prophecy promised me a child with power beyond all others, and all the signs point towards the Granger whore being the candidate for the task. Of course I won’t let the bitch touch him. She is to be… what is the term, an incubator, of sorts? My heir will feed on her until he is ready, and nobody will touch her until he is ready to do so. There will be no more questions, other than how to best aid in preparation for my son. You will all bow to him. Remember that. Only those in attendance here, in addition to Mrs. Malfoy, will be aware of my son’s parentage. You must all swear to never speak a word of this outside these walls. Have I made myself clear?”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Antioch ran from Mrs. Malfoy faster than his feet could move. He didn’t understand her at all. Sometimes she was so sweet to him, and others she was cruel and mean. It confused him that she wouldn’t just pick a way to treat him and stick to it. That’s what Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Draco did, and Antioch liked them all the better for it.

Mr. Malfoy was his favourite by far. He wasn’t around much, but if Antioch ever asked him for anything Mr. Malfoy would have someone fetch it for him. 

Mr. Draco wasn’t on any of Antioch’s lists of people in Malfoy Manor at all, and that was saying something, since there were a lot of people in the Manor and a lot of lists to be on. But Mr. Draco wasn’t a favourite, and he wasn’t hated, so he was somewhere in the middle and was therefore irrelevant. 

But Mrs. Malfoy confused him. And Antioch did not like to be confused. 

Once he was safely in his play room overlooking the gardens, Antioch took a deep breath and looked about. On one end of the room was a large round table, big enough for many more children should any pop around for a visit. Sometimes they did, and he found that entertaining visitors was not on his list of favourite ways to occupy his time. They fawned over him for some reason, treated him like Mr. Malfoy did. Mrs. Lestrange, who preferred to be called Auntie Bella (though Antioch positively disliked calling her much of anything, as he did not care for her in the first place), brought her younger daughter, Cressida, around several times a week. Antioch decidedly did not care much for Cressida. She was far too shy for his liking and preferred to stay in the play room rather than explore the everchanging gardens or dare to sneak through the Left Wing. 

What Antioch could say for sure was that Mrs. Malfoy was much more agreeable when Cressida was around, and was always sweet towards the girl. Antioch would watch the two of them together and feel nearly jealous of Cressida, if only for her ability to elicit a consistent relationship with Mrs. Malfoy, who never seemed to make up her mind when it came to him. 

As Antioch stood in his playroom, regarding the large table, he decided that it was time for another visit with the girl. 

“Comstock,” he said lazily, “invite Auntie Bella and her daughter over for supper tonight.”

Comstock, who had not yet even entered the room and was still climbing the stairs, shivered at the boy’s command and turned around and started back down the staircase, passing Narcissa with a solemn nod and a wave of his fingers, refilling her teacup as he passed.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Draco nodded and agreed through the rest of Voldemort’s meeting. He couldn’t quite understand what was being said, he was too caught up with the news of the mudblood’s situation.

The mudblood? Since when had he stopped calling her by her name? Even if he rarely called her by her first name, he referred to her by her last name. At least he thought he did. Draco thought about it for a moment and still couldn’t come up with an answer. He couldn’t remember when he had started to dehumanize her. He knew that he’d treated her less than human for their entire time knowing each other almost, but that wasn’t entirely him, right? It couldn’t be. The only real reasons he ever disliked her were because she bested him in classes and because she chose to fall in with Potter’s crowd. She could have been brilliant and untouched by this mania if only she’d been sorted into Ravenclaw. Then, even if she was a mudblood, the Dark Lord would have viewed her as an asset rather than an enemy. Rather than someone who needed to be squashed under his foot.

She’d been in the Malfoy Manor dungeons for well over a year and a half now. Every once in a while Draco was sent down to “see about the mudblood whore.” There were plenty of mudbloods down there, but she was the only one who was hated, no - reviled by the Dark Lord. 

Most of the others could pass by without being thought of, but she had caught his attention back during the fighting and for that she was to be punished. Draco knew that he didn’t want to hurt her. He knew too much about her to feel comfortable with it. He’d seen her in the early mornings for breakfast, in his classes and he’d seen her in a beautiful dress and in her pyjamas and he’d seen her try to make sense of her awful hair and it felt almost wrong to now see her wretch on the cold floors with bruises and cuts and broken bones.

As soon as the meeting was let out, Draco veered out of the room, avoiding all conversation, and ascended the stairs that led to his mother’s drawing room. 

“Mother,” he said with a note of urgency. Narcissa stood at his entrance, cautiously curious about the state of her son’s appearance. He looked positively ill. Sensing the tone of his voice, Narcissa threw up wards around the room for privacy.

“The prophecy… It’s happening.”

Narcissa’s eyes widened. She breathed deeply for a moment before composing herself. She nearly looked dejected as she swallowed coarsely, sad and defeated. Sitting back down, Narcissa ran her delicate hands along her writing desk and took in the scent of the rich wood. 

So the time has come at last.

“Who is it?” 

Narcissa looked up when her son did not answer. She expected to see him sad, she would be embarrassed as a mother if her own child had no qualms about discussing the murder of a pregnant witch, no matter how many times they’d run through the game plan. What she did not expect was to see him struggling not to cry. It would never be easy to take a life, but the decision itself was. Whatever poor girl was pregnant wouldn’t last long. It was just too dangerous. 

Narcissa wondered then at his wavering lips if Draco knew the girl. She ran through a list of names in her head, people that he was acquainted with well enough to elicit this kind of response.

“Oh, my dear Draco, my boy, come here.” She held her arms open and hugged him tight to her when he stopped resisting. She rested one hand at the top of his head and smoothed his hair, holding him as he shook. She smiled softly. How very much like his father he was. 

There was Pansy, but last Narcissa heard she was engaged to a Rosier cousin from Denmark. Daphne Greengrass, possibly? Narcissa pursed her lips. Daphne was quiet and obedient, and therefore not likely to draw the Dark Lord’s eye. 

Narcissa’s eyes widened. Bellatrix. Her own sister? Her hand fell to her son’s shoulders, nearly needing them to keep her steady. She knew that Bella had been anxiously hoping to bear the child, she’d been trying ever since the prophecy had been stolen from the seer’s fingertips. But Bella had cried in Narcissa’s arms too many times that she wasn’t yet pregnant, and probably would never be. She hated herself for not being able to give him this, a child after so many aborted pregnancies she’d had with Rodolphus. 

She could barely feel her fingertips anymore at the terror of having to execute her own blood. If they could ever do it… Bellatrix was wildly unpredictable, mad and desperate. She killed their niece easily, would she kill her nephew the same? Her sister?

“Who is it? Give me her name. Let me hear you say it, Draco. I need to hear you say it.”

Draco held still under her arms for a moment. Finally, he took a wavering breath.

“It’s Hermione, mum. It’s Hermione.”

Narcissa nearly choked on her own shock, her own ignorance. Of course he would go after the Granger girl. She was a formidable opponent during the war, and now, a broodmare bred and ready, she was harbouring the next Dark Lord in her own body, growing it from her filthy blood. 

Narcissa shook her head and moved away from her son, regaining her composure. 

It was hard sometimes to reign in her own voice. She was so used to speaking with Death Eaters that it came easily to speak so poorly. 

Narcissa thought again of Bellatrix, mad and desperate and probably willing to do anything to ensure her own future alongside the Dark Lord. 

“I guess it’s time then,” Narcissa sighed. 

“Time for what? Mum, we can’t kill her.” Draco pleaded and his voice broke at the thought of seeing her cold and lifeless on the floor. 

“Of course we won’t kill her, don’t be ridiculous. I mean that it’s time to reach out the Rebellion.”

Draco was just about to ask his mother what she meant by that, but he was cut off by her sudden call to action.

“Comstock,” Narcissa said loudly, and jumped when he popped by her side, just under her elbow. “Comstock, go fetch the Granger girl from the dungeons. Take her to Draco’s chambers and fit them for her. All of Draco’s belongings will be relocated to my chambers, in the spare bedroom across from the reading room.”

Comstock nodded and asked no questions, simply raising a hand to snap his fingers.

“Why am I moving, mum?” Draco asked.

“Don’t be daft, Draco. Your room is the safest in the entire Manor, I made sure of that myself, and that girl is going to need it. To keep her safe from all those who would harm her and from all those who would harm the child. Above all, to keep her safe from the Dark Lord.”

Draco nodded as his mother spoke, trying to make sense of everything.

Narcissa pulled away from her son to stroke his hair one last time before turning and sitting back down in her writing chair. She pulled out a crisp envelope and when she was finished writing, she handed the letter to Draco.

Beati, qui tecum stare in lumine,  
To the Rebellion...

Draco read it with a furled brow. He’d known about the rebels, all of them knew. They caused problems for the Dark Lord all the time, but they were just ants compared to snakes.

“Do you think they’ll really meet with us?” He asked when he was finished reading.

“Of course they will. It’ll take time, but we’ll have an audience with their council soon.. Any information about what goes on in here, about what goes on in the Left Wing and in the Dungeons is of use to them.”

Draco’s eyes widened.

“Mother have - have you met with them before? Without me there?”

Narcissa shushed her son though nobody could hear them regardless. Narcissa was unassuming, and her offensive skills were nowhere compared to her husband or her sister, but she far surpassed both of them when it came to defenses. Counting her lucky stars, Narcissa thanked Circe that her own son seemed to have been born with the same gift.

“Only when I know I won’t get caught. We’re living in a terrible world, Draco, terrible. I do not want to see my grandchildren grow up with the Dark Lord hovering over their bassinet, plotting their future before they even have a name.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically an extension of Chapter 1!   
> Also howdy y'all thanks for droppin by

“It is a pleasure to see you, Auntie Cissa,” Cressida said sweetly to Narcissa upon her arrival with her mother. Narcissa greeted them with smiles and tucked her finger under the girl’s chin and swiftly pushed a ringlet behind her ear. The girl didn’t look a thing like her sister, and hardly any of her husband, Rodolphus, could be seen in her either. She had a delicacy to her that reminded her of Draco as a boy, and as much as Bellatrix would hate this, the thing did look an awful lot like their late niece. It made Narcissa’s heart ache whenever she saw the girl in front of her, she wished she could flee with her to the Rebellion where she knew Andromeda’s grandson was growing up; where she knew the sweet girl could grow up without the corruption of living with her parents.

“The pleasure is all mine, sweetums, all mine indeed. And Bella, how marvelous it is to have you over again so soon.”

Bellatrix smirked and handed her coat off to another house elf, nearly crushing her in the process, and turned to her sister. She hugged her closely and kissed her cheek before backing away and putting a possessive hand on her daughter’s head.

“Is our Lord here for supper tonight?” She asked hopefully.

“He ought to be, he promised Antioch that he would eat with him and tell him a story.”

Bellatrix’s eyes lit up at mention of the boy.

“Where is that dear boy, anyways? He invited us all the way from France to come by.”

Narcissa pursed her lips and looked down at her niece who stiffened at mention of him. She loved Cressida dearly, which is why her absence helped Narcissa sleep at night. She knew how the Dark Lord’s son saw her; how her used her.

“I’m right here, Auntie Bella,” a calm voice said from just around the corner that led to the Left Wing. Narcissa turned quickly. She hadn’t heard him come downstairs. She narrowed her eyes at the boy and gritted her teeth to keep from scolding him in front of his father’s most loyal allies.

Bellatrix breathed deeply when she saw him and smiled more manically than she perhaps intended. Lifting her hand from her daughter’s head, she smoothed Cressida’s hair and tapped her lightly on the shoulder.

“Thank you for inviting us for dinner, Antioch,” Cressida curtsied to him. Bellatrix beamed at her and turned to Rodolphus, who watched as Antioch waved the young girl over.

Cressida smiled and stepped forwards, looking up to Narcissa one last time before Antioch impatiently grabbed her hand and pulled her to a run.

When they were upstairs and the playroom door closed, Bellatrix and her husband turned to Narcissa at last.

“Aren’t they just a dashing pair?” Rodolphus snickered, snapping his fingers to summon one of the house elves.

Comstock appeared before them, bowing down with his back turned to Narcissa and offered Rodolphus and his wife a drink from a large silver platter. All the elves had learned rather quickly that appearing before the couple without their drinks would earn them a walloping.

They took their drinks and immediately took a sip before wandering through the parlor, leaving Narcissa behind them to fuss over the mud tracked in.

“Mistress does not need to clean. I’ll do it now.”

Narcissa shook her head to the elf.

“No, have someone else clean it. I want you to watch over the children. Make sure no hair gets pulled. Stay out of sight, though, and see if you can keep them away from my sister and her husband.”

Comstock nodded and popped to the top of the stairs, just outside the playroom where he could hear the small voices talking inside. As he slowly dissolved into a large pair of eyes that seemed to fade from existence before Narcissa’s own eyes, another house elf appeared with a small apron and a scrub brush. Narcissa blinked at the small creature who bowed to her in response.

How silly I must be, she thought. If only she could travel back through time and tell her young self that one day the very creatures her families abused so terribly would be her greatest allies. She could almost laugh at herself. Her sister frequently did, though for different reasons entirely.

Narcissa held a hand to her chest for the second time that day and took a deep breath. She just had to get through the night, and then she could think about tomorrow. Putting on a cool demeanor and face befitting of a woman of her station, Narcissa looked up the stairs one last time to see the familiar shift of light as Comstock entered the room.

The house elf was very quiet, quieter than most. It was one of the reasons why Narcissa chose him to be bound to the boy. He was already bound to his mistress but they decided that if the child could not be killed, they would at least have someone other than his father have ties to his soul. He was only lucky that he was bound to his Mistress first, as her orders were mandatory, and the child’s were simply obligations. The boy could never know, though, that his elf was not his and his alone. Nobody knew but a handful of people; Mistress, Mr. Draco, a redheaded man that only went by Sir in front of him, and two of his associates (though of course Comstock knew who they all were). And then there was the girl downstairs, though Comstock could never be sure if she counted, because she usually didn’t know and only knew when Mistress or Mr. Draco told her so, and they rarely did. So sometimes it was a handful, and sometimes it was a handful and one, and sometimes even it was less than that.

Comstock moved quietly and slowly behind where the boy stood and pressed himself up against the wall on the far end of the room opposite the large circular table that Cressida sat at. She pulled out a white china tea set with pink roses and set them on the table carefully.

“Would you like to play a game, Cousin?” Cressida asked sweetly when Antioch sat down on one of the chairs near her.

“You know you’re not my cousin, right? You can stop calling me that.”

Cressida turned to look at him, a bit disbelieving.

“I’m sorry, Antioch. I didn’t mean to upset you. Would you like to play a game, Antioch?”

He rolled his eyes.

“I have an idea for a game we can play.”

Cressida’s eyes lit up. “What is it?”

“It’s a game we can play even when we’re not together, you see. It’s like a spy game.”

“A spy game? What is that?”

“It means that we’re going to go undercover in our own homes, to our own families, and solve mysteries.”

Cressida nearly shivered in excitement.

“What kind of mysteries?”

“That’s the best part. It can be anything we want it to be. What’s something you’re curious about?”

Cressida thought for a moment. “Where do the house elves get our food from?”

Antioch nodded to her, though it was actually the last thing he wanted to do. He knew the answer already and it was just as boring as she was. Comstock, however, smiled at the girl’s question. He would have to make sure a fine line of elves led them straight to the kitchens so she could see where all their meals were prepared.

“How about we solve that mystery tonight, before dinner, and then we solve a couple more before you leave?”

The girl jumped up and held her hand out to her not-cousin.

“I would like that very much. But first, would you like some tea?”

Antioch looked down at the tea cup in front of him and sighed. He looked back at his not-cousin and smiled, remembering that the girl beside him might be the only person who could help him figure out who his mother was and as he remembered he pretended to take a sip out of the empty glass cup.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

7 Years Before

 

“You’re absolutely insane, how could you have gone behind my back to what, sell them secrets?”

“You know I’m not selling anything. I’m giving them much needed information to keep themselves alive. I’ve been safe, Draco, trust that I’ve been keeping you safe.”

“It’s not me that I’m worried about. If you’re found out you put everyone in danger. Not only me and not only you. If you’re found out, everything you know about the rebellion will be his. He will destroy them, and you’ll have no grandchildren to dream of saving and no dreams to have because you’ll be dead and I’ll be dead and she will be dead and his spawn will kill her and-”

Narcissa put her hands to his shoulders to keep him steady, as his every word seemed to tip him further and further into hysterics. “Draco, she will die either way if we don’t try to get her out of here. Everyone is aware of the risks - she is worth it. She is the spark, Draco. She needs to be saved before that thing put inside of her kills us all. My dear boy, she is worth it if it means I can save you.” Her voice sounded calm and steady, yet Draco knew all too well that that voice was reserved for when she was most scared.

He could not deny her fears; he knew she was right. She was smart, and she was nearly undetectable when she wanted to be. Of all the wizards and witches to play a double agent, she was their best chance.

He closed his eyes for a moment before regaining his voice.

“How many times have you met up with them?”

“Only a few, love. Only when it’s urgent.”

“How have they not come for her by now? I’d assumed the Weasley’s would rather die than leave her festering in the dungeons?”

Narcissa looked down, ashamed. “They don’t know she’s here.”

“Excuse me? You didn’t tell them that their Gryffindor-Princess, War-Hero, Best-Friend-of-The-Boy-Who-Lived, Brightest-Witch-of-Her-Age Hermione-Fucking-Granger has been locked up in our own basement for well over a fucking year being tortured and desperately needs to be saved? How can you live with yourself, mother, honestly. If you’d told them about her sooner she’d either be dead or free and not incubating a future tyrant. Do they even know she’s alive?” Draco’s eyes snapped to hers and read her features. There was a tear in her eyes though she held resolute.

“It was too much of a risk to tell them. She’s so carefully guarded down there that no matter their determination they won’t be able to get her out. They’d kill themselves for her.”

“Because she’s worth it.”

“Which is precisely why it’s time, Draco. It’s time for us to actually fight. She’s worth it.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> again, always a trigger warning for peeps who need it.  
> Nothing overtly going on but but we do get more of a glimpse into Hermione's "situation"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heya peeps it be me, the chronically casual RoryEgg.
> 
> I had a dream last night that I saw some girl getting beat up in a parking late at night lot by 3 guys and dumbass me thought "I'm strong, I can save the day" and who would've guessed, the 3 guys definitely beat me up but good news, I'm still cocky. So. 
> 
> Pls comment with information about your lives (but not suspicious information I'm not trying to rob you I just want to say howdy I am a curious kitty hell yeah)

7 Years Ago

Hermione paced around the new living quarters she’d been assigned, though she couldn’t quite understand how she got there or even why she was there in the first place. There was the brief flickering of hope - hope that somehow someone from the outside had found her and transported her to a large and comfortable room overlooking enchanted gardens. But that hope dissipated rather quickly… There was nobody left; none who would care enough for a jailbreak, anyway.

Hermione wasn’t there for Harry’s death in the end. She wished she had been just to say her final goodbyes, but from where she was being kept, it became frequent torture tactics to force her into a pensieve to watch his death play out over and over and over again. The sound of Ron’s screaming tore through her and haunted her every night. 

But even worse than his screaming was that she wasn’t there for Ron’s death either… She wasn’t there for the Weasley Execution, though it was told to her like bedtime stories. She wasn’t there when Neville Longbottom was hunted down and burned alive. She wasn’t there when Luna was dragged off into the Forbidden Forest by Fenrir Greyback, and she wasn’t sure she could truly reconcile the girl she fought alongside with the girl who apparently killed for enjoyment now. At least, that’s what she’s told. She didn’t believe it at first, didn’t believe that the wolfish girl that came by to see about her was really Luna. But maybe she just doesn't want to see it… Maybe it’s just too hard to keep hoping for impossible things when those exact impossible things were precisely what she mourned: the life she could have lived, the remains of those she was supposed to grow old beside.

She was supposed to end up with Ron, she knew. She was supposed to fall in love with him slowly and in pieces, and then quickly and all at once. In her cell, when things got bad, she imagined him laughing in the back of her head. She imagined Harry and Ron holding out their arms for her and welcoming her home. She thought of reuniting with them and their smiles, their embraces, their hair…

“Miss Granger will be safe here,” a deep voice rasped behind her.

She span on her heels to face her assailant only to find a small aging house elf standing before her with a stack of clothes.

“Mistress promises that you will be safe here.” The elf looked her in the eyes and watched her face as she stood to accept the clothing. There were silk nightgowns, warm pants, flannel jumpers and warm woolen socks. “Mistress will see to you when you are ready, Miss Granger. Is there anything I can do for you? I am at your service…”

Hermione stared blankly at the clothes. On the right breast of one of the stylish sweaters was a crest she had become very familiar with over the past decade. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

Why would they be trying to help her? They hated her, they hurt her every other day here and now? What changed in the past day?

She couldn’t quite remember, actually, now that she tried to think about it. She didn’t know how long she’d been alone in her cell. She didn’t know how long it had been since her last visit, or who it was that visited her at all. She could only remember being visited by a team of mediwitches as they did their rounds, and they healed her and did their tests and she wondered then if the results of the tests had anything to do with being in this grand room with a larger bed than she’d ever be able to fit in her childhood bedroom. The colours of the room were soft, comforting, decoratively a muted green that made her feel as if she were walking about in a forest full of lush moss and mist. Surely this wasn’t real. She’s not really here, she told herself. She’d fractured and finally some part of her mind got to live in the safety of this room while her body underwent the pain. This is all a dream, just a dream… she was just dreaming… 

“You have full access to everything in this suite. The door over there,” the elf pointed past the french style doors that signalled that her new accomodations stretched beyond just a bedroom and a neat bathroom. “That door is to remain closed at all times. The only people who have access are Mistress Narcissa and Master Draco. And I can come and go as you please, Miss Granger.”

Hermione scrunched her nose at the names, as her reverie ended because there was no way in hell that her dream-self would imagine the Malfoys as her safe haven, but her aching body was much too exhausted to put up any kind of argument. Instead, she eyed the door and then the bed and wished for nothing more than to lay upon it and sleep uninterrupted and never wake up.

“Do you have any suggestions for dinner? Anything you’re craving?”

Hermione scoffed. Of course she had cravings. She’d had cravings for far longer than she’d been held in Malfoy Manor’s dungeons. But her stomach was used to the emptiness, and though she desperately wanted something substantial to give her some of her fight back, she scanned her mind for the best foods to eat after starvation.

“Soup, please. Tomato, if you have any…”

“Of course, Miss Granger.”

The elf snapped and disappeared, leaving Hermione alone in the strange room. She wanted to explore - she wanted to do a lot of things. But exhaustion made her desperate for reprieve, and she found herself dragging her feet to the bed, where she just about had to jump to get all the way up. Settling into the mattress that felt like heaven on her bruised and damaged skin, Hermione drifted off into a sleep where the murder of her best friends played out in her brain over and over and over and over and over and over again.

But it was not interrupted, and it was soft, and she did not wake up in a pool of blood, so she settled into her victory by pretending that she were waking up back in Hogwarts, where all she would have to do to feel safe was hop down the stairs and into the Gryffindor common room.

Gryffindor… it’d been so long since she’d had the strength to even think the name. It felt strange to roll it off her tongue that she could only mouth the words slowly before letting herself start to open her eyes, ready to face the hell all over again.

She didn’t know if she were precisely awake when she opened her eyes; books were floating past the open french doors and light streamed through. And then, just beyond them, orchestrating them, was a person she wished she’d never see again. He didn’t see her though. He was walking back and forth, waving his wand up against the walls of whatever laid beyond the bedroom.

Hermione squeaked accidentally when a large tome floated past the doors and Draco looked up to see her wide eyed and terrified, but incessantly curious and he scanned his brain for the best way to approach her.

Stepping forwards to put a hand on the door frame, Draco took a deep breath.

“We’ve got a lot to discuss, you and I…”

Hermione met his eyes and stared with a ferocity that made him shiver.

“Yes,” she spoke though her voice wavered weakly. “I expect we do.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now

 

Draco grimaced as he lifted Hermione’s slumped body from the cold ground. He could feel the chill through her loosely hanging and nearly see-through dress, if it could even be called such a thing. It looked more like a burlap sack to him, and no matter the charms he put on the garment, it was too short to cover her and any charms he cast to protect her lasted only so long as she were alone after he came to see her. Should any other foot touch her floor, all of the charms would vanish, and she would be left to shiver, forget, and face whoever came to see her.

He checked her vitals and waved his wand over her as he leaned her against the stone wall. Bruises under her skin washed away and when the colour was gone he had to look away from her to keep himself calm. Of course, being around her was never calming. Rather it was the opposite. Even when she couldn’t open her eyes or mouth or move her limbs, even in the few moments of what could almost be counted as peace compared to her daily life, he never could fully forget the sound of her screaming and begging him to help her. 

It always struck him most when he had to put on a show for the others; there was no way to avoid hurting her. 

It didn’t help him that he had permission to hurt her… if anything, it made him feel worse. But his cruciatus was weaker than his aunt’s and it was weaker than Voldemort’s so he preferred to be the one to do it in the end. If it weren’t for her cold hands around his, her dark eyes begging for him to torture her, he’d never have the guts to remove all memory of her child and all memory of her hope. 

He’d watch her blink and see him and not remember that he was trying to help her, that he was trying to help her son. He’d hear her cry and beg and it was always the same. 

“You’re better than this,” she would whisper while trying not to cry between curses. She always tried to be strong. 

Draco wiped his forehead and healed the last cut from her ankle before tipping a small silvery blue potion into her mouth. 

Her eyelids fluttered momentarily before dropping again, but he knew that she’d seen him. 

“How is he?” She croaked hoarsely. 

Draco, crouched beside her, cast a charm on the door to keep it shut and locked before turning to sit at her side. Hermione gravitated to his warmth and he put his hand to her short hair. Someone had cut all the hair off in ragged clumps and left it by her feet only a month before, and her hair was struggling to find the life to curl, but it only hung limply as it grew in short bursts.

“He’s… Mother and I, we’re worried about him. So is Ron.”

“What’s happened, is he hurt?” She gasped, trying to push herself up to look at Draco in the eyes. Draco shook head head and pushed her back down until her head laid on his lap.

Hermione looked up at him. “You’ve spoken with Ron?”

Draco nodded, handing her a smaller vial of the silvery blue liquid. Smiling weakly, she cupped the vial in her palms and held it close to her chest. 

“Why are you all worried? Is he okay?”

He pondered for a moment before speaking. 

“He’s obsessed with finding out who you are, absolutely determined to solve the mystery. Somehow he convinced my cousin to go snooping around her home for information about you. When my mother stopped by Aunt Bella’s vacation home in France for tea she saw her with bruises all over. Poor girl, should have been born to different parents.”

Hermione wrapped a hand in Draco’s coat pocket and gripped it tightly. She breathed deeply, fighting off the shaking and the remaining spasms of her morning visit with one of the Carrows. Draco couldn’t be sure which one, though, as they both left the same magical signature.

“Can anything be done for her pain?”

Draco nodded. “My mother took care of that, and has formally requested that she spend the summer with us.”

“Why would putting her closer to Rupert be any better? Would it not be safer for her to be away from him?”

Draco frowned. No matter how many times he told her, she never could remembered that the name she gave him was not the name he was known by. His father named him Antioch after the first owner of the Elder wand, and Antioch is what was written on his birth certificate. Perhaps someday if he ever found out about Hermione he would opt to change his name back, but that day was too far away to talk about and too uncertain to hope for.

“If she’s here then we can look out for her. Mother worries that without a nurturing figure she’ll splinter away from who she is and turn into her parents.”

“Like Rupert might be turning into his father?”

Draco nodded. 

“Maybe if he were allowed to see me -”

“Absolutely not, Hermione, don’t even think about it.” Draco said sternly. While she had love to give and heart enough to give it to even those undeserving of it, she would just have to love her son in a different way than most mothers get to love their children.

“But look at it my way: there is a boy out there who knows of nothing but his father’s grooming. He’s acting out and curious and desperate to be loved. So desperate that he’s willing to put others in danger. And I’m here and I already love him, he’s my son and all I want to do is save him…”

“You had the chance to save him back when you were pregnant, Granger. He could have been raised with you and with the whole rebellion and take hold of his destiny from there.”

“You know that wouldn’t have worked.”

Draco bowed his head down. He did ultimately agree with Hermione. Her logic was sound, despite the fear they all lived with because of it. 

“No magic could have hidden him from Vol-from him; it would have been a slaughter to retrieve Rupert and they’d all be dead and so would you and Narcissa, you’d be killed for helping me and then what? There would be no one left to watch over him and he’d have no choice but to fulfill the prophecy the wrong way...”

Draco nodded and stroked her short hair, running his fingers through so they gently rubbed against her scalp. She leaned into his touch and nuzzled closer to him, earning a soft snort from Draco. He could still feel her shaking, though her skin was now warm to the touch. He wondered, briefly, what they had done to her earlier but he dared not ask. She never told him, anyway. But he could see how it weighed on her. He could see how her mind nearly fractured when he was gone too long, like he had been recently. Obliviation made her unstable, but it kept them safe. She always said so when she came to. 

“Maybe being around Cressida will be good for him. Maybe it’ll teach him some compassion. If he can’t come visit me, that is...”

Checking his antique watch, Draco commented that their time was coming to an end. He had his rounds to complete, prisoners to see to. People to fix so they could be torn apart over and over and over again.

Hermione nodded and thanked him, holding on to the glass vial. With shaking fingers she managed to uncork it and drink it in one gulp. Handing the vial back to Draco, he turned and left, locking the door behind him while Hermione closed her eyes and laid her back down on the cold stone. Removing her dress and tucking it beneath her head, colours started to appear before her until the image of a boy with bright red hair stood before her.

Professor Slughorn, before his death in an unfortunate Rebellion mission, figured out how to alter the pensieve magic. Now, when Draco brought Hermione a vial, it gave her memories straight to her head. She could instantly remember all she had forgotten. Sometimes, though, if she were lucky, he was able to bring her a vial of someone else’s memories: Ron. He couldn’t send them often, but when he did she laid out on her back and rewatched it in her head until it hurt to keep her eyes closed. The side effect of the potion was that she had more memories than she had room for, and this resulted in awful headaches reminiscent of hangovers that lasted for days until her mind could adjust to the swelling. Narcissa proposed removing some of the memories she had of her torture; surely those were less important and too painful to remember in the first place, but Hermione was insistent that she wanted to remember everything that happened to her for when she was finally free. When Rupert came for her, when he saved all of them, when he fulfilled the prophecy the right way, she wanted to remember it all.

She focused on the picture of Ron on her eyelids - he was facing a mirror and then he smiled. It wasn’t a big smile, or a happy one. But he knew that she would see it, and that was enough for him to smile at all these days. 

“Hey, ‘Mione,” he whispered to her.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

7 Years Ago

Narcissa and Draco stood before Ron, who was now wearing dark bags under his eyes that looked like deep purple bruises. Even through the polyjuice they could see them. Beside him stood two figures, both presumably also using polyjuice. 

The only reason Draco really knew who stood before him was the voice. It was hoarse, but it was the same that yelled and jeered in school and it was the same voice that Draco heard screaming when Harry died. 

Finding them was not easy. After his mother’s note was sent out, it took only a few hours for a strange appointment to appear in her calendar for a trip to a salon she’d never been to. Once there and seated, a kind hairdresser waved over for her and Draco to follow him into the back room after a simple styling and insisted that they drink a spot of tea with him. 

The polyjuice was instantaneous and made Draco wretch and in moments he was staring back at a perfectly ordinary woman wearing clothes that looked far too fine for such a drab witch. They changed wardrobes with cheap clothes from the employees lounge and were sent from there on a series of errands that resulted in him and his mother entering an old house that they hadn’t even seen until they were well into the middle of it.

Ron was the only one who spoke at first. 

“What do you have?” He asked, to the point. He raised his chin to Narcissa, ignoring Draco, and looked at her expectantly. 

Narcissa shuffled anxiously, steadied herself and looked towards Draco for reassurance. The decision, though simple, was not quite so simple to put into motion. 

“There’s a bit of context to it,” Draco interjected. “A lot more actually.”

Ron nodded to him and Draco felt a familiar worm of jealousy; in front of him was a changed man, hardened by war in ways that him stronger. What did Draco have to show for it? Pale skin and headaches. Only things that made him weaker.

“About a year ago, the Dark Lo-”

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Ferret,” Ron cut him off. “I can’t believe we said yes to this meeting. If you’ve got anything worthwhile for us, enough with this Dark Lord shite. Call the bugger by his name or -”

“I’d thank you not to tell me what to do, Weaselby. If you haven’t forgotten, I’m the one coming to you to give you information that you desperately need. I don’t need to do this.”

“Draco,” Narcissa started, putting a hand to her son’s arm. He quieted immediately, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “What my son means to say is that about eleven months ago, Voldemort intercepted a prophecy from a seer, a girl only eleven years old. He killed her, of course, but the prophecy spoke of a witch, resilient and powerful. Industrious, if you would call it that. It said that she would bear the Dar- Voldemort’s heir: a son more powerful than Voldemort himself. My sister thought herself to be the mother in the prophecy, but she couldn’t get pregnant. ” 

Draco’s eyes flecked upwards to gauge the reactions of the three Rebels. Furrowing his brow in surprise, he watched as they all watched Narcissa intently and with little shock on their faces. 

Perhaps they were so accustomed to shock that they learned how to mask it on their faces by now. 

“Draco and I, we’ve been planning for the moment that the prophecy would start happening. We thought that if we could keep the child from surviving to birth then we could give you all a chance to turn things around before being wiped out by an even worse tyrant.”

Ron’s jaw clenched as she spoke, and Narcissa watched observantly as he sucked in his breath and let it out slowly, as if trying to regain control. 

Trying to reign it in, Narcissa continued, “We realize, of course, that infanticide is despicable. We don’t take this lightly. But today, today at the meeting he held in our home - Draco, you finish. You were there, you know more than I do about it.”

“He found the witch,” Draco started. He tried to continue but found that his tongue felt too dry and his mouth couldn’t shape the right words. “He found her, and that’s why we need your help.”

Ron leaned back against the creaking wood of the dilapidated living room walls. The two others beside him looked at each other cautiously, a narrow edge of ice in their glares that told Draco that they were not pleased with what they learned, but Draco curiously watched as Ron’s face conveyed none of the emotions his associates bore. Instead, Ron had to keep the corners of his mouth down, as if he were trying to cover a smile.

“Tell me, then, if you’ve been planning this for so long, why do you need our help? Why us? I’d imagine both of you are barmy enough to stroll into a nursery and kill a whole ward of pregnant witches if it serves you right.”

Draco’s teeth ground together as he bit his tongue to keep from snapping back. His mother had prepared him for this earlier. They’d be tough on him, given his history. They’d test their story.

“It isn’t about killing just any pregnant witch anymore, Weasley, we’re here because of who the pregnant witch is.”

Ron’s eyes met Draco’s and challenged him to continue, but he stuttered. 

“That’s another part of the context that you need to know. My mother, she was smart. You have to promise to see reason, all of you. The logic made sense…”

“I guess we will be the judge of that, won’t we?” The figure to Ron’s left said in a woman’s voice. Draco narrowed his eyes at her. She had a very distinct french accent, but he couldn’t pin the voice to anybody that he knew. 

A quick look from the man to Ron’s right told Draco that she wasn’t meant to speak, but Ron didn’t drop his stare.

“He held a meeting this morning. It’s Hermione, Weasley. Granger’s the one he’s convinced is the mother of his heir.”

Draco expected him to react wildly but Ron’s face turned red, and he took a deep breath before speaking.

“Hermione’s dead, mate. I thought you lot would’ve heard by now. I guess we’re grateful that you thought you’d come to us about this, but she can’t be-”

“She’s not dead, Ronald,” Narcissa spoke up with a pale face and white knuckles.

Ron’s brows knit together as he turned to look at Narcissa. Taking a step towards her, the polyjuiced man didn’t look quite so intimidating, but the look on his face, the look in his eyes… Narcissa shivered. 

“She’s alive. She’s been alive this whole time.”

Ron looked to Draco just long enough for Draco to nod to him, confirming the news. 

In a blink, Ron disapparated. He was gone, somewhere else, and he’d left his two associates behind. 

Looking back and forth, the woman who looked to be a man stepped forwards to where Ron had been standing and held her chin high.

“You’ll hear from us soon,” she said while stepping towards them. She drew her wand up towards his forehead and he looked to Narcissa, acute panic settling in. 

“Don’t worry, Draco. It’s just a memory charm to keep this location safe for the Rebellion. We’ll only have five minutes to get out and get as far from here as we can after the charm is cast before we forget this place and how we got here entirely.”

He nodded and faced the french woman, who cast the charm without speaking, and then turned to Narcissa and repeated.

The two figures backed up and were gone in an instant, just as Ron had. 

Blinking, Narcissa pulled her son and disapparated to her sister’s home in France. 

They stumbled when they landed, Draco tripping in the quickness of it all. Transfiguring their clothes into stylish robes and a tailored suit, Narcissa pushed open the gate and snapped to alert the house elves of their arrival.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo!   
> As promised, an update to let you know that our present has moved forwards (As time frequently does)! We are about a year after the current timeline in the last few chapters, so now the past timeline, “7 years ago” will read “8 years ago”
> 
> Also, it’s a new year. Bring some New Year Joy to a lonely duckling and give me some 2019 friendship, homies.

8 Years Ago

Ron crashed into an invisible wall and slammed his fists up against it. He had apparated to a small clearing deep into a forest he couldn’t remember the name of and thrashed up against the barrier. The wall opened up before him to let him in and a shapeless figure closed it behind him as he strode through into the busy alleyway filled with mud and rain and people that hadn’t been there just moments ago. 

They were still using some of what Hermione taught him during their camping trip, but with so many more people and the stakes being so much higher, everyone did their part to make sure that they remained as safe as they possibly could and hidden. Everybody contributed to their wards. Every day. Even the little ones had to do their part to keep them safe.

“Oi,” the shapeless figure called as he tried to grab Ron by the shoulder. “Are the others coming?” he called out when he couldn’t get a firm grab at him.

He couldn’t get any grip with Ron thrashing around the alley. People shouldered past him at first but gave him a wide berth when he started kicking at tents and wooden crates, even swinging his fists into a large bag of flour. A woman huffed at him, kneeling over and taking the flour away with her as if it were a child being pummeled.

The figure, still shadowed by rain clouds and setting sun, leaped towards him. He swung his arm around Ron’s chest and tried to pull him back. Ron shoved the arm away from him, regretting doing so when a distinct popping noise came from the figure’s wrist. 

Ron winced and stopped, turning towards the figure who now appeared to be just a boy. Just a teenager. Just a year or two younger than Harry was when...

“Luna can fix that,” he motioned to a tent in the distance. 

The people in the alleys resumed with their lives, closing the gap Ron created.

From where the boy stood in the rain, he could just make out a hint of a tear on Ron’s face as it rolled down his cheeks. But it was raining inside the shell, and he couldn’t be sure if The Great Ronald Weasley was actually crying or if it was just the storm. He hoped it was the storm and that something hadn’t happened to his brother out on their meeting with the Malfoys...

“Are-Did anything happen out there?” he asked, voice wavering. 

He looked up at the man, at his spasming face, and in moments his red hair emerged and he was exactly how the boy remembered him: strong. Fierce. Powerful.

“Go get that wrist fixed,” Ron said back to him. “And tell Luna to prepare her tent for a meeting. Make sure she knows to make room for everyone. And get Claire, would you? She likes you.”

The boy stood in the rain for a moment before turning back towards the shell.

Ron awkwardly shuffled his hands through his hair.

“They’ll be along soon. Sorry about that wrist, mate. Go get it fixed, yeah?”

The boy nodded and turned on his heels to walk towards the tent on the other side of the camp. 

Luna’s tent was the largest for a number of reasons. She’d taken up the position of healer long ago after Greyback attacked her in the forest. She still had the scars across her face and down her torso to remind her daily of what had happened back there, back during the battle. Most people avoided looking at them, but when the boy was younger she caught him staring and secretly gave him a handful of sweets for having the courage to show compassion and curiosity.

The boy wrinkled his nose when he drew open the door flap of the healing tent. He looked around, peering about for the blonde healer and found her bent over a man with a strange metal thing fused to the skin on his arm. 

“Uh, Miss Lovegood?” he asked shyly. 

The woman turned around and the boy looked up to meet her eyes.

“Yes, Travis?” She said sweetly, almost as if she were singing as she worked over the man. 

“Ron said to tell you that there needs to be a meeting with everybody. He also asked if you would fix my wrist.” He held up his arm to show her how his hand fell. It was starting to bruise and he winced as he raised it. 

Luna smiled and took her wand from her pocket. She aimed it straight at Travis’ wrist and it cracked back into place. 

“Do you need any help setting up?” he asked, shaking his wrist to prove that it was fully healed. When he was satisfied that it was, he looked up expectantly to the healer. 

“No, dear, I’ll take care of that.”

The boy nodded. 

“Do you happen to know where Claire is? I’ve been told to fetch her.”

Luna’s eyes darted up to his at the name. 

“You’re sure? He asked for Claire specifically?”

Travis scrunched his nose a bit and squinted. 

“I’m sure. Why, is she busy?”

Luna shook her head. 

“She should be with Charlie today. Out by farms, if I remember correctly. Go now, if Ron asked for her then he’ll want her here earlier than the others. He’ll need to prepare her.”

“Prepare her for what?”

Luna grimaced. It looked strange on her face, Travis noted. Unnatural. Sad.

“You’ll understand soon.” She said, hurrying around to start arranging a large number of benches around the tent which seemed to grow by the second. “Go on, now,” she said sternly when he didn’t jump to action. 

Travis took a deep breath and shook his wrist again. 

“Alright, I’ll try the farms first. Thanks again for the wrist, Miss Lovegood.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One Year After ‘Now’

 

Antioch felt better some mornings. 

He usually woke up feeling nauseous, it ate at his stomach from the inside. But his father told him not to worry about it. He said that it was perfectly normal to feel hatred and disgust in the early mornings. 

But Antioch wasn’t sure if it was hatred and disgust. 

He wasn’t sure if he truly hated nearly so much as his father thought he must. He didn’t like a lot of people, but that was different than hate. Mrs. Malfoy said so. She said that disliking people happened naturally, but hatred was intentional.

He wished he’d chosen to dislike the people that he did. He wished that he disliked them because they were idiots or stupid or annoying. They were definitely stupid, and annoying, and definitely idiotic, but he didn’t choose to dislike any of them.

He just did.

He disliked them because he felt worse when they were around. He felt his lip curling when they were around and no matter their loyalty to him and his father, he disliked them all the same. 

His father said that it was because he was their natural superior; that he was born to lead them all. Antioch couldn’t imagine why he would want to lead people he didn’t like.

He didn’t understand why he disliked the people he was supposed to trust. His father definitely trusted them. Why couldn’t he?

But this morning felt better. He’d been feeling better more frequently over the past several months. He wasn't sure why, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But he knew it was happening, and that was reason enough for him.

“Comstock,” he called lazily. 

The elf popped into the room after a few seconds and Antioch yawned. 

“Yes, Master?” the old elf grumbled.

“Is my father around today?”

The house elf shook his head. “I’m afraid not. He has business to attend to at the ministry.”

Antioch kept his face emotionless. 

“And Mrs. Malfoy?”

“She and Master Draco are needed elsewhere, regrettably.”

“We’re alone then?”

The elf nodded. 

“For now,” he replied in his low voice.

Antioch dismissed the elf and smirked. 

He was rarely ever left in the manor alone. There were so many people that filtered in and out that he could never go anywhere without having someone trying to speak to him anymore.

Jumping from his bed, Antioch dressed in his most comfortable clothing and removed a wand from the secret drawer in his bedside table. Mrs. Malfoy always took the wand when she saw it out, so he had Mr. Malfoy install false paneling that even Comstock didn’t know about. It’s where he kept his greatest treasures; primarily, his wand. It was precious because no other kids his age had a wand. It made him special. Antioch knew that Mrs. Malfoy took it because he wasn’t supposed to have one in the first place, but his father gave it to him in secret and promised to teach him how to perform magic before any of his peers. His father wanted him to be the best.

Antioch wanted to be the best, too.

But he only knew a couple spells. He perfected the Lumos charm in his first week and took even less time when he was learning how to levitate things. He started with a feather pulled from an incompetent owl and then with heavier things. Now he could levitate books if he wanted to. 

He left his feet bare as he descended the stairs and when he was finally standing in the foyer, he eyed the Left Wing carefully. He walked over to the edge of it and stared into it. 

He put a hand through, to test the wards. 

Nothing. 

Good. 

He put a toe in, and then the whole foot. 

Nothing. 

Good. 

He took a step back and tried peeking his head in. 

The sound of moaning reverberated through the halls and it made the hairs on his arms stand up. 

Antioch swallowed and then took a firm step until all of him was inside the Left Wing.

He closed his eyes for a moment and then started walking towards his father’s study.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

8 Years Ago

“Tell me again,” she whispered, feeling ill. 

“Hermione, I-” he started, though stopped when he saw her face change at the name. 

“Granger,” he tried again. “You’re pregnant.”

She shook her head. 

She’d trembled when he came into the bedroom, she shook so hard when he'd stepped towards her. And then he spoke and he spoke softly and kindly and she couldn’t help but shiver despite herself.

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I were, but-”

“What kind of game are you playing, Malfoy?”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“This isn’t a game, Granger, you’re pregnant. For real. I’m so sorry,” he added on the end but he instantly regretted it when she jumped from the backboard of the bed and slapped him where he stood.

“How did it happen? Who did it?” He took a step closer and raised his hand, intending to try to calm her but she swatted him away and pulled back. “Don’t touch me! Please! Just tell me what happened to me!”

Draco nodded and hung his head low, taking a step back to help her adjust.

“Look… Before I tell you everything, and I will,” he added, “you need to know enough to make your own decisions about this. Now, I don’t have all the information. So I can’t tell you much right now. But what I can tell you is that you are here, in my living quarters, and you are currently safe. But there are conversations to be had, and I am not the person to have those conversations with. Do you understand?”

Hermione sat herself down on the bed.

“How do I know if you’re telling the truth?

“You don’t.”

“Then why should I believe you? Why do all this?”

“You should believe me because my mother and I are the only people keeping you from the Dark Lord. We are the only two people who can safely get you to Weasley and the others. We are-”

“Weasley?” Hermione asked with urgency in her voice and hope in her throat.

Draco winced. 

‘Oh Right,’ he thought. She didn't know.

“Ron. He’s alive. All of them are. Well, most of them. But Ron’s alive still…” His voice trailed off when he blinked and suddenly she was a changed woman before him.

Suddenly she was a girl who, in the worst time of her life, found a glimmer of home. Suddenly she was a girl whose first love was still alive and out there. Suddenly she was stronger, despite the creature inside her sucking the life out of her.

“I can’t guarantee that you’ll ever see him again,” Draco warned her, his voice low. 

She smiled at him though, and it was enough for him to start worrying about what state her mind was in nowadays… if she had enough of herself in there to survive this whole mess... 

“But he’s alive,” she said finally, and a tear fell from her closed eyes as her lips parted. 

It wasn’t a big smile or a happy one. But Ron was alive, and that was enough for her to smile at all these days.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now

 

Narcissa came home to shrieks coming from the Left Wing. She didn’t even have time to register the hysterics when Draco pushed past her, wand drawn, and ran towards the noises. 

“Comstock,” she whispered, summoning the elf as she made her way behind Draco. But the elf didn’t appear before her like he should have done.

Narcissa grimaced then, a headache pinching at her and begging for attention. She shook herself as her paces turned into a frantic run and when she finally rounded the corner she saw Draco on his knees on the floor. 

In front of him stood Bellatrix, still shrieking, and grasping the boy by his ear. She flailed her arms, pulling him after her and yanking him in different directions. He nearly tripped when Narcissa ran in and her eyes locked with his as her sister pulled hard enough for bits of hair caught between her fingers to be pried from his head in small clumps where beads of blood now appeared. 

“Bella,” Narcissa breathed when she noticed that in all the flailing, her sister had her wand aimed pointedly at her son. 

Draco, still on his knees, shuddered when he felt a cool presence step towards him. He could hardly see the greying feet under the large cloak, but he felt immediately ill. 

The Dark Lord walked out from his study and closed the doors slowly before turning towards Narcissa. 

“Are you aware…” he started, “that my son has been allowing himself excursions into my study?”

Narcissa shivered. 

“My Lord, I-”

“Did I not tell you that he is to remain away from the Left Wing entirely?”

Narcissa bowed her head. 

“I’m-”

He raised a hand, and Narcissa’s hands flew to her mouth when she felt her lips sew themselves together. Blood oozed onto her fingers as she tried to make noise and it was nearly enough for her to be sick all over herself if only she had a mouth to be sick through. But she didn’t, and Draco watched as her skin turned a sickly shade and her eyes turned red and watery. Bella laughed at her sister, mocking her while still aiming her wand at her nephew and gripping the young boy with her sharp nails. 

“Bella,” the Dark Lord whispered. “Do you care to regale the Malfoys with their incompetence?” 

She smiled. 

“Of course, my Lord,” she bowed. “I came by today, innocently, to see about taking care of some business downstairs,” she glanced towards the boy sharply. “And that’s when I saw Antioch in our Lord’s study. Pilfering through cabinets and drawers…”

Draco felt lightheaded. 

“He’s been awfully naughty, hasn’t he, sister? We all had such confidence in you after your own son turned out so well, but it looks as if you’ve… lost your touch, so to speak.”

“I wonder,” Voldemort added, “if you’ve done your part in raising my son. Perhaps Bella’s right. Perhaps he needs… discipline. A firm hand. Perhaps it is time for him to go live with someone more… loyal…”

Bellatrix smiled gleefully and turned to Antioch, completely changed and now caressing his cheek. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To come live with me?”

Antioch didn’t want to cry. He knew he shouldn't, not in front of his father. But he felt like it as his ear bled and his head hurt and the mere sight of Mrs. Malfoy with her face bloody and her mouth sewn so tightly shut that it almost looked like an old scar rather than a mouth to begin with, it all made him sick to his stomach and incapable of thinking straight. 

He looked up at his ‘Auntie Bella’ and narrowed his eyes. 

Even if he couldn’t think properly, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he most definitely did NOT want to live with the woman in front of him. Despite all his frustration over Mrs. Malfoy, she never made him bleed. She was mean sometimes, but if he ever disliked her it was because he chose to.

Voldemort grinned wickedly as watched the scene unfolding in front of him. Draco had the sick feeling that he didn’t at all mind the woman manhandling his son and actually enjoyed the turmoil.

“It doesn’t look like he wants to leave, Bella.” He said cruelly, still smiling. Bellatrix looked up to him and narrowed her eyes. 

“Yes he does, you do, don’t you Antioch?” She asked, frantically pulling the boy’s head towards her face.

Antioch shook his head and hid the pain of doing so against the sharp nails.

“That’s absurd, of course you wa-”

“Do not put words in my son’s mouth, Lestrange,” Voldemort warned. “You’ll do well to remember that he is my son and as such, he is your superior.”

Draco’s eyes widened. He rarely admonished his most loyal servant, especially not in public, especially not in front of her little sister... 

Her chest heaved as she stared between the boy and his father, and then towards her sister with her mouth still crisp and bleeding.

“I cannot have my son disobeying me,” Voldemort whispered as he started towards Narcissa. 

He passed Draco with a soft graze of his hair and approached his mother slowly, drawing his wand to her face and brushing the pale hair behind her ear. Narcissa steadied herself, tried to stop the panic that rushed through her and willed her heart to stop beating so hard inside of her in case he could hear it spasming.

“Tell me, Narcissa… What would you do to punish him? To keep him on the right path?”

Narcissa gulped.

Voldemort smiled and trailed his wand across her jaw to her lips. Without words, the sewing disappeared and her mouth gaped open.

She was still bleeding, still clutched at her mouth in pain but Voldemort was watching her with amusement in his eyes. 

“I-” She tried speaking and found that she could. Her mind raced as she tried to factor in every repercussion to every option. “The cruciatus, my Lord. To teach him to fear disobeying you.”

Draco winced at his mother’s words.

Voldemort smiled then.

“Very… tactful.” He stepped aside and gestured to the boy. 

“Please,” he grinned.

Narcissa balked. 

“My Lord?”

“It is your punishment,” he responded coldly. “You may do the honours.”

Narcissa looked up at Antioch and ached when she saw him trembling. She didn’t want to hurt him, she didn't want to push him even farther away. But it was the only way to keep him with her.

She fumbled for her wand and raised it.

“Crucio…”

The boy dropped to the cold marble floors and writhed on the ground. He screamed and cried and when Draco tore his eyes from Antioch’s tears he looked up and saw his aunt taking steps backward to stand behind Voldemort. And Voldemort was grinning open-mouthed, Draco could see his sharp teeth gleaming. 

And then it ended. 

And the boy laid still.

And then he didn’t.

Antioch breathed deeply and started to squirm. He moved his legs first, tested his feet and his ankles and then his knees. His fingers moved, then his shoulders, and in one movement after that, he pulled himself from the cold floor and stood to face his father with his shoulders set and his chin high. 

“Bella…”

Bellatrix raised her wand and the boy dropped again.

It lasted longer this time, and there were more. He convulsed with every scream that tore her throat raw and then it was over and Narcissa was crying and wiping the tears away. She took a step forward and placed her hand on Draco’s shoulders. She shook him a bit when he didn’t respond to her. His eyes were fixated on the boy’s slumped body. It looked so much like the limpness he saw in Hermione when he… The way his hair fell in curls that couldn’t form. And his eyes… they were closed but the look of them open and defiant made Draco shiver, and that’s when Draco fixated on the thought that Hermione might have heard the screaming and known it was her son, known her son was being tortured so close to her and had known by his voice that it was him screaming and he was screaming because he needed her to be his mother and nobody would let him have her and he was screaming because Narcissa and Draco, the two people she saved by staying, the two people she counted on to keep her son alive and on the right path fucked up and let him face his father and Bellatrix and… and Draco thought that Bellatrix might have been waiting a very long time for the boy to mess up. She might have been waiting a very long time to curse the boy as she cursed his mother. The anger she felt at Granger’s pregnancy alone was enough to justify her actions, but then the years of being cast aside for the child… Draco wondered again, feeling sick to his stomach if Granger could feel that her son had been the screaming voice and if she knew it was Bellatrix doing it.

But it was over, and Voldemort grinned when his son didn’t rise.

“Take him away…” Voldemort waved to Narcissa and Draco.

Draco jumped forwards, wrapped the boy in his arms and walked as fast as he could without sprinting to the boy’s room.

“Comstock, get here NOW,” Narcissa yelled when they closed the door behind them and set the boy down on the bed. 

The elf popped beside them. 

“Why didn’t you come earlier when I called for you?”

The elf took Narcissa’s hand and led her to the boy’s bedside, where Draco brushed his hair back and examined him. After so much experience curing the cruciatus, he found himself surprised by the boy. 

His heart rate was normal, his breathing was normal.

He looked as if he were simply sleeping. 

“What is this?” Narcissa asked her son when she noticed how still he laid. 

“Something is wrong. He… he isn’t responding normally to the curse… I’m not sure what’s happening.”

“Please,” Comstock wined. “Let me explain!”

Draco ignored him and pulled his wand out. He waved it over the boy, but the tests all concluded that he was absolutely fine. He wasn’t even dreaming. 

Sometimes people get stuck in their heads after the cruciatus, like the Longbottoms. Every once in a while when he visited Hermione he found her unresponsive, sometimes even for days at a time. And this was just a boy, just a child. But he wasn’t dreaming, he wasn’t stuck- 

Comstock lunged for Draco’s wand, earning him a solid shove.

“Master Draco must listen,” he tried again, finally earning a fraction of his attention.

“Spit it out, Comstock, this is no time for games.”

“The child is fine! Mistress Gra- no, Miss Her… Mist-”

“Don’t you dare say that name, Comstock, you know the rules. What about her? How is she involved?”

Comstock breathed deeply. 

“She made sure that he would be okay!” the elf proclaimed, hissing in whispers though he knew nobody could hear them. The wards kept all noise within the room. “When the screaming began I went to see her. I shouldn’t have, I’ve been told never to go down there but… but you weren’t home, Mistress and something had to be done.”

“What did you do?” Draco leveled his eyes to the elf, who peeped in quiet fear.

The elf looked down and rummaged through his loose hanging garment, and pulled out a wand carefully.

“The child had this with him when your aunt came… I could do nothing to protect him from her. I used the wand to let her out of her cell, only for a moment and I didn’t leave her alone once, I listened very carefully.”

“You took her out?” Draco growled. “That’s the only thing keeping her safe at this point!”

“Please, Master Draco, I did it so her spells could work. I hear her muttering them at all hours but it takes too long for them to work when she’s warded in… I let her out so her protections could get out and find him.”

“You let her do magic? Are you insane!” Narcissa hissed as she raised her eyebrows in shock. 

“He felt nothing, Mistress. And he is fine thanks to her… She protected her son, you should be glad he did. The cruciatus should never be experienced by a child… If we want him to follow the prophecy the right way, we must protect him from his father. And-”

 

 

The elf continued speaking, fading in and out from there, but Antioch didn’t care to listen to any of them anymore. He’d heard enough. He’d heard all he needed to hear from any of them when Mrs. Malfoy cursed him in the Left Wing. 

He remembered enough, too. He remembered feeling the pain for only a moment before having is closed off around him. He felt swaddled in numbness, something he didn’t like at first until he heard the voice that told him it was over, told him that he had to get up.

So he got up. And he faced his father defiantly. And then he was on the ground again and his voice was not his own, it screamed and his body cried but inside he felt warm and safe. He felt none of the curses, no matter how hard Bellatrix tried. 

And still, he heard the voice… it belonged to a woman, a sweet sound that lulled him back into his head and told him he would be okay if he followed her voice wherever she led him. He traveled into his mind with her, felt the edges of her somewhere like a wall inside his cranium, he felt his fingers up against it and found it sturdy and endless. The walls closed in around him and cradled him and he felt, then, that his mother must truly be dead. 

He’d seen plenty of ghosts before, and he always assumed that if his mother were dead, her spirit would find him so he could meet her.

But she hadn’t come to him. And he hated her for it. And he missed her for it. And he loved her, for the slight possibility that she might be alive and not dead at all.

But if she were alive, why hadn’t she come for him yet? Why wasn’t she married to his father, like Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy? Why didn’t she want him?

But then he was on the floor, inside his head, deep inside it and he felt her there and he wanted to cry because she didn't feel foreign. She felt like waking up on a good morning. She felt like a soft blanket that kept him warm wherever he went. She felt like that time he dropped a knife over his foot and it slid right off. It didn’t even hurt.

So he decided that she must be dead after all and that perhaps there were more ghosts out there than the kind he’d seen before.


End file.
